


TNR

by graiai



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Castration, Forced Orgasm, Incest Kink, M/M, Master/Pet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23422486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graiai/pseuds/graiai
Summary: He knows full well the Exarch’s heat has run its course.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	TNR

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JackOfNone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackOfNone/gifts).



The Exarch clings to the bedspread, the hand which is not yet crystal in a white-knuckled grip, silent but for his whines for the brush of Emet-Selch’s cock against his prostate. “Come now,” he murmurs, “don’t you want this?” 

He knows full well the Exarch’s heat has run its course. His begging had largely stopped but two days in, his struggles soon after; already by the time Emet-Selch had let morning dawn upon his illusion some hours ago, he had only soft, pitiful little mewls to offer in exchange for the gift of his cock. A few days ago, even in the early grasp of his heat, _any_ such attempt to drag out some unwilling pleasure would have won him objection—were Emet-Selch to guess, a bit of scathing commentary upon what sort of person must wring the measure of his manhood from a struggling captive. 

Now he refuses to take even the breath with which to formulate an insult, his only sounds those in which Emet-Selch gives him no choice: voiced exhales forced from him by thrusts particularly too deep, wordless, lacking even the most affected attempt at a _no_. 

Emet-Selch tires of it. Had he wanted to fuck a corpse, he only ever need entreat Elidibus; neither resisting nor truly willing, the Exarch offers nothing of interest. 

He thrusts once more, and again, aimless in pursuit of his own pleasure without even the _appearance_ of hatred. He pulls out without finishing, careless of the mess which spills down the Exarch’s oil-slick thighs in his absence, and with a single hand flips the Exarch’s limp body onto its back so that he might see his face—to search his features for any sign of a fight left in him, or to know for certain his halfway soul is so fragile as to shatter within him for only a few months of misery. 

Emet-Selch has not broken even after countless millennia; he has little and less compassion for a weak-willed shade claiming against all evidence to be a whole person, deserving of his respect. 

Sure enough, the Exarch’s face is despondent, his expression blank—and after days of hard use, not likely intentionally so. Emet-Selch rolls his eyes, raking across the weak thing’s ravaged body: the throat which bears bruises inflicted by the Exarch’s own grip at Emet-Selch’s behest, to the dull saltwater stain of dried-up tears yet clinging to the crystal which cut across his cheek—to his cock heavy between his legs, as hard as when first Emet-Selch took him into his mouth, his body betraying the inexperience the man himself would not admit to. 

“Why, Exarch,” Emet-Selch begins, his tone effortlessly affecting thoughtless disdain though fury flares in the pit of his stomach, “I’d no idea you so desired me.” When it was simple _biology_ filling the Exarch’s slender cock, he had made a mantra of _I don’t want this_ , entreating himself perhaps moreso than Emet-Selch at each gasp slick fingers pried out of him. Now, divested of any reasonable excuse, the pitiful thing lays silent, chastened. Emet-Selch lets his lips curl into a sneer even as he allows melancholy into his voice. “More’s the pity you haven’t the faintest understanding of what it is you desire. Had you the perception with which to approach that knowledge, we two never would have come to blows.” 

He lets out a sigh, his shoulders slouching with it; waves away what could have been with a lazy hand. 

“What is it you imagine this is?” he presses, and knowing he will receive no answer continues without pause: “I expect you find release in your palm dreaming of Allag. Do you desire me as Xande?” His expression twists quite unintentionally at the hideous thought, to _want_ one of those things which had the gall to call themselves ‘alive’ when only three parts of their whole had yet been rejoined; Emet-Selch can but hope the Exarch’s tastes run so on the sole drive of fantasy, and it is not clouded memories of that vile past from which he derives his excitement. Were the reality a factor, Emet-Selch thinks he might need to be offended. 

He snaps his fingers—unnecessary save for the dread which the act must now inspire in his victim—and the Exarch’s crystalline fingers close around his other wrist without his own say in the matter, Emet-Selch’s control absolute over his own creation and through it the Exarch’s body, no longer mortal yet so thinly spread in his æther it would be a cruel insult to the work of evergreens to name what he is _shade_. 

The boy heaves a shuddering gasp when his hands force themselves up over his head, and from the start every new attempt he makes to move them, to _struggle_ again at last, is fruitless, impulses meant for his muscles swallowed up by gaps torn wide in his synapses by his transmutation. 

“I can do away with your desire with the same ease I did that.” Emet-Selch’s voice is low, an offer nonetheless threatening, the tone which he had adopted so frequently in the months since he had first used it to coax the Exarch into an unwilling climax in his own hand. “You belong to me,” he says, “body and will, and I shall do with you as I please.” It is nothing the Exarch does not know, proven in every waking moment (and several dreams) of their time spent together, slowed enough that to something closer to mortal than not it would feel like months; Emet-Selch relishes the shudder he earns for reminding him all the same. 

Emet-Selch sits back, pleased enough the turn of his mouth is not _fully_ an act, though his intonation is naught but calculated to recall Allag: “I’ve been lax in fixing my pets of late… of course, had I spayed your mother, I would not have you beneath me now.” He sweeps the pad of his thumb across the wetness left by tears beneath one of the Exarch’s deep red eyes, fluttering closed in expectation of his touch; Emet-Selch brushes his thumb again across the eyelid, twitching out of mere instinct. 

“I cannot reasonably attend to your _every_ heat,” Emet-Selch goes on in his role, trailing his fingers down the line of the Exarch’s neck bare of the adornments the emperors of that doomed bloodline were so fond of seeing on their pets, “nor do I wish to have a score of red-eyed kittens in my harem.” Beneath Emet-Selch’s hand, so much larger in this body than the Exarch’s own, the thing’s fragility is made clear in the slender line of his waist, the desperate throb of his heart so close to his delicate skin—what of it has not been swallowed up by the blue crystal. Emet-Selch roughly tweaks the Exarch’s remaining nipple in time with the same tug on the well of æther within him, and watches heavy-lidded the Exarch arch for his touch. When at last he cups the Exarch’s balls in the palm of his hand, even the Exarch’s limited native faculties under other circumstances should easily have met Emet-Selch at his conclusion. So worn from use, he cringes away from Emet-Selch’s declaration as if it comes as a shock: “Fun as it’s been, I have no further need of these.” 

And so with the talons of his Ascian attire brought forth from the æther and no further ado, Emet-Selch slices them off. It drags a scream up out of the Exarch’s core; Emet-Selch is pleased to note it is not _quite_ broken of spirit, nor are those thrashes Emet-Selch has given his body leave for, his legs weak beneath Emet-Selch’s weight and his arms utterly still above his head (and Emet-Selch will receive no thanks for the angle, which allows the Exarch to hide his face in the crook of one). Perhaps there’s a few days of valor yet left in him. 

He tosses aside the severed organs as the Exarch’s blood spills the color of his eyes on the bedspread—and the color of Emet-Selch’s own, after a blink chases away Solus zos Galvus’ pale gold. He stills the Exarch’s legs not by magic or any preternatural means but only a firm hand, and settles between his sweet pet’s trembling thighs: beneath his odd little cat’s cock, flagging now for the loss of blood and perhaps the pain, there is a weeping gash between the join of the Exarch’s legs. 

Emet-Selch bends down, and with æther on his tongue, laps at the bloody mess. The press of his tongue heals the damaged flesh, closing up the wound before it can do aught but make the Exarch dizzy. 

...well. The empty space remains—for no magic will be able to right this—and Emet-Selch’s fingers chase his tongue to explore the new-healed expanse, lightly for the untouched skin is tender, and the Exarch shudders for it: pleasure or disgust, Emet-Selch does not care enough to discern. One ever becomes the other, with time. 

“The part of you which remembers Allag,” he says, only loudly enough to know he will be heard past the Exarch’s miserable keening, “remembers this is only right. This is what you were meant to be, kitten—an object for my entertainment, and nothing more.” 

The Exarch does not offer him any response, nor had he expected one: in pain and shock, it’s possible the Exarch hadn’t even processed the words, but since the world was shattered into its many shards, Emet-Selch has long mastered the art of giving speeches for his sole amusement. It would be no great loss if on this occasion the Exarch did not hear him; the rescue upon which he hangs his hopes will not be soon in coming, if indeed it comes at all. 

Emet-Selch lowers his head once more, the Exarch’s blood still tacky upon his chin and the bedspread though magic and a clever tongue have removed it from the Exarch’s own body. He takes the tapered tip of the Exarch’s soft cock past his lips, and wins from him a full body shudder, a dry sob. 

“N-no,” the Exarch manages, lifting his head as much as the crystal crawling up his neck and face will allow; Emet-Selch, in his generosity, stiffens the bonds within its structure, so the Exarch needn’t expend any further effort holding himself up to watch as Emet-Selch takes his cock to the root with ease. 

He does not tell Emet-Selch _no_ again: at his guidance the fingers of his crystal arm uncurl from their bruising grip on his wrist to stuff themself into the Exarch’s mouth, too full to voice anything he might come to regret. The Exarch gags on his mercy, pumping in tandem with Emet-Selch’s own ministrations, slowing and pressing hard at the back of the Exarch’s throat when Emet-Selch laves over to the odd catch on his tongue that is the place where spines come up on him as all cats left intact. Emet-Selch wonders how long they will remain on the Exarch’s, how long he will be able to become erect. 

The Exarch hardens in Emet-Selch’s mouth with a whimper, acknowledgement of any complicity in the debasement spared him by Emet-Selch’s command of the crystal ringing his slim cock. His warm fingers, free now that he has released the Exarch’s arm from that same control, twist in Emet-Selch’s hair; they tug desperately for some shred of control as a dry release is forced out of him by means well beyond the Exarch’s ken. As pointless as any effort to defy Emet-Selch’s will, he allows his pleasure to show on his lips as he lets the Exarch’s cock slip from them. Time and again, and perhaps for a time yet still, the Exarch has shown his insistence to test even the surest of failures.


End file.
